


take my hand

by donutcats



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: “Give me your hand,” he had said, reaching forward, all stretching fingers and earnest voice, and so you had given him your hand.





	take my hand

**Author's Note:**

> a little something about widofjord holding hands because I said so

“Give me your hand,” he had said, reaching forward, all stretching fingers and earnest voice, and so you had given him your hand. _Cut palm to cut palm_ , your own voice echoes back at you, as you clasp his hand in yours, scar to scar. Maybe it shouldn’t feel symbolic, except it kind of does.

Because this is the third time you’ve found yourself holding onto Caleb, like he’s some sort of anchor in the midst of the hurricane that your life has become.

At first, it was nothing but the start of trust. Of him reaching for you, moving your hand around until he was grasping at your forearm and showing you the right way to do it. He didn’t hold your hand then, it was nothing but two allies coming to an understanding. Of agreeing on trust and truths. But it was the start.

That’s how you thought it was going to be for awhile. Grasping forearms, allies in understanding. In keeping your little group from running itself into the ground.

And then you were underwater letting your blood soak into an unknown variable and he didn’t flinch. He hesitated, wanted to make sure you understood the situation, but he didn’t _flinch_. Reoccurring themes, you thought, as you were the one to reach out, palm up, blood swirling in the water. His palm fit into yours, and it reminded you of the first time, those few seconds before he moved.

Palm to palm, blood to blood. Locking eyes and understanding.

His hand in yours, gentle fingers and the soft lighting of your room. His grip firm but ardent, “we are friends.” Saying it again until you repeat it back, until you understood.

You lay in bed, shutters pulled closed, thumb pressed to the line in your palm. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does, not really. Except it does, because you made a promise to a man who never forgets, and maybe that should bother you. More than it does, at least. But it doesn’t, because you made a promise to _Caleb_ , to help him.

And you’re going to do that, help him, even if he never calls in that favor.

 

The next time his hand is in yours, you’re the one to reach out first. It’s a knee jerk reaction, to take stock of your situation, to feel the thunder roll under your skin, to throw your hand out and call his name.

He whips his head towards you, understanding flickering across his face, and then he’s running. You snatch at his hand, wrapping your palm around his, pulling him close as the thunder cracks out of your sword and sends you both rocketing away from the fight.

 

It’s not a reoccurring theme, you think, as Caleb stretches his fingers towards you. It’s a pattern. Because you only hesitate for a moment, before you’re meeting his hand halfway. You came to him, like you promised you would. With explanations almost ready to fall from your tongue. You didn’t want the others to know, to hear about who you used to be.

You weren’t a bad person, but you didn’t like yourself. You were a bit boring and awkward and not worth knowing, in your opinion. But if anyone is going to know, it might as well be Caleb. Because he keeps asking, because he’s so adamant that he won’t look at you any different.

The person you were was someone you got stuck with because of circumstance. The person you are now, is someone you built from the bones of that boy who drowned in the ocean. Parts of him are still alive, still clinging to your body, in little ways. In the ways you didn’t hate. A love for a certain type of food, or the way the sea air fills your lungs.

So you tell Caleb. You tell him about these parts of yourself that no one else knows, because he’s the only person that’s ever wanted to know. And in the middle of it all he quietly reaches towards you, palm down, fingers out, not expecting anything but just waiting.

It’s a comfort, pressing your palm to his. A comfort you didn’t know you needed until he offered it to you, so long ago.

 

Your hand slips into his as Jester places her own onto his leg. The perils of jumping over walls while running from danger. It’s broken, or something. It hurts enough for Caleb to dig his fingertips into the back of your hand, press your knuckles against his jaw as the healing magic works on setting things back into place.

“Any closer and you’ll be bitin’ my hand.” You try for a joke, watching Jester move her hands down. If you concentrate you swear you can hear the sounds of the bones righting themselves.

“No biting outside of the bedroom.” Caleb grumbles out, a slight hiss of pain tinting the edges of his words, and you can feel the corner of his mouth move against your knuckle.

Jester snorts, making you sputter and cough and try to ignore any sort of innuendo. Caleb either doesn’t care for your reaction, or doesn’t notice it, because he just squeezes your hand tighter, muttering something in Zemnian as Jester finishes up.

She happily leaves with a pat to Caleb’s head, but he doesn’t move right away. So you sit there, knees tucked against Caleb’s thigh, joined hands still pressed to the scruff of his cheek. Finally, with a sigh, he opens his eyes and meets your gaze.

“ _Danke_ , Fjord.” It’s breathed against the back of your hand, and you swear you feel a brush of lips. But before you can react, Caleb is using your shoulder as leverage, pushing up and away, and you’re left wondering if it was just your imagination.

 

It’s simple, this time. Caleb’s hand in yours as you walk along the path, his eyes glazing over with magic as Frumpkin skitters on ahead. There’s no fanfare, no declarations or comments. He sidles up to your side, and easy as breathing intertwines your fingers.

Beau shoots you a look, filled with raised eyebrows and quirking lips, but you ignore her. Instead focus on the way Caleb leans against you, on leading Caleb safely through this patch of the forest. Your thumb brushes an arc against the back of his hand, almost unconsciously, and you guide him past bothersome roots and upturned logs.

You keep up conversation with the others, in something as close to hushed whispers as most of you can get, and holding Caleb’s hand stops feeling so foreign. Actually, if you’re honest, it stopped feeling foreign awhile ago. With the words _‘we are friends’_ passed between you. But now, it feels less like a moment you’re hyper aware of, and more like an extension of yourself. Like this is what your hand was molded for, if you’re trying to be poetic.

 

“Gimme your hand,” you say, reaching forward, all curling fingers and lazy voice, and with a slightly furrowed brow, he gives you his hand.

You run your thumb along the line of his scar, before pressing it palm to palm, clasping his hand in yours. You’ve stopped wondering if it should be symbolic, because of course it is. Because it’s only symbolic if you make it, and you really want it to be.

Because you’ve lost count of how many times you and Caleb have grasped onto each other over the course of time you’ve known him. He’s gone from an anchor to keep you grounded, to the safe harbor you always aim for in the middle of a raging storm.

You tug him forward, trapping your hands between the both of you, as you duck down to kiss him. And he’s surprised at first, which you find amusing. He should have seen this coming, really, you’re only returning the favor. What with the way he grabbed you by the face and planted one on you before turning bright red and running out the door, just the other day.

But then he’s stretching up, pressing even closer, fingers of his free hand hooking into the edges of your armor. It feels more than a kiss, you think. If you believed in reoccurring themes and patterns and all that shit, you’d say it was something like both of you finally understanding how much you mean to the other.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my writing, please check out;  
> [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/kaijucats)  
> [my tumblr!](https://donutcats.tumblr.com/)


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